Walking through the Emily Dickinson exhibit, I'm annoyed (but secretly delighted) to catch myself quietly humming "The Yellow Rose of Texas" under my breath.
I used to haunt museums like a hungry ghost, desperate for some spark of inspiration inducted to me through the relics of those I thought my betters, some touch of the divine to settle on my yearning soul. But here, amidst the faintly scrawled letters and emblems of loneliness (that wallpaper! those pressed flowers!), I feel, strangely, almost nothing.
"Be-cause I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for meeeeee," I sing to myself.
One year ago: Daily Goals
Two years ago: Why Would That Work?
Three years ago: Disrespect
Four years ago: Share the Glory
Nine years ago: 4-7-08 Flowing With the Tide